


Threatening the Lives We Belong To

by gigantic



Category: CW Network RPF
Genre: Cheating, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-06
Updated: 2006-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:30:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigantic/pseuds/gigantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All bullshit aside, there are three easy rules for getting away with an affair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threatening the Lives We Belong To

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [](http://theotherej.livejournal.com/profile)[**theotherej**](http://theotherej.livejournal.com/) and [](http://girl-wonder.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://girl-wonder.livejournal.com/)**girl_wonder** for the fantastic beta work. The title is very nearly an Anna Nalick song lyric.

All bullshit aside, there are three easy rules for getting away with an affair.

One, _never get involved with someone your spouse or significant other already knows_.

The game console frequently in question didn't come wrapped up. It was waiting on Jensen's chair behind the cameras, the envelope on top reading, _Yes, it's a card. Pick up your jaw!_ Jensen's birthday had passed something like two months before, but the card wished the happiest of days in bold letters anyway. Above his signature, Jared insisted Jensen prepare to get his ass kicked two-player smackdown style and, under that, Sandy requested that he please show Jared who was the real bitch in this match-up.

At dinner the same night, Jared paid for the alcohol and said, "Expensive gifts, quality liquor. An appreciative date would put out."

Jensen toasted him, glasses clinking. He had said, "Not on the first date, scumbag. What kind of girl do you think I am?" and, at the time, it was all just shits and giggles.

Two, _never bring your secrets home._

More often than not, this is what it's like now:

Sandy has an all-day commercial shoot in Chatsworth; Jared and Jensen fuck on the couch and on the hallway floor, and still save time enough to make pizza from scratch before she makes it back to their place.

Jensen sees his girl off from Vancouver a day before their short vacation officially ends. Jared books the early flight back from L.A. and passes out in Jensen's bed before he even goes to his own suite.

Sandy's best friend from back home visits and wants to do lunch. Jared says he has a meeting at the L.A. studios -- go on without him -- and then makes Jensen come three times in two hours, twice in his bed and once in the shower, each time with Jared's shoulders broad between his legs.

Three --

He always forgets three.

;;

Jensen doesn't too much trust anything that happens at first sight. He doesn't believe people who talk about great expectations. He likes to believe he has a little more free will than the cosmos allow for. The problem isn't that they like some of the same music, laugh at the same stupid wise-cracks; the problem is what has Jensen looking over his shoulder and double-checking that all the clothes in his laundry hampers do belong to him.

The problem is sometimes their mornings go like this:

Jared asks, "Ever seen a match burn twice?" and strikes one across the bathroom countertop. "Burn once."

That sharp scratch trips the spark, starts the flame. It flickers, washed out in the sunlight, and then Jared purses his lips and blows. Jensen half-watches it all play out in his periphery.

He lets it happen when Jared reaches for his arm, busy looking in the mirror. He needs to shave. Two quick movements: bare the forearm, match to skin, and it's the residual heat that gets Jensen. He snatches his arm down, swearing.

"Burn twice," Jared says at the same time Jensen calls him an ass. "I can't believe you fell for that."

"Shut it, you," Jensen says, snapping the waistband of Jared's boxers. He goes for them a second time when Jared keeps laughing and gets distracted. There are more important things. His fingers rest there against the skin, nails smoothing short lines across hip, and Jared catches Jensen's wrist. The pad of his thumb slides flat over the veins. "Take these off."

"Mm-mm, we've got a flight."

"In, like, two hours, right? Drop 'em," Jensen says helpfully. He pushes down the left side, and Jared dips his head forward, taking care of the right with his free hand. "We've got time."

;;

Sandy is one of the nicest people Jensen's ever met, so the first time he touched Jared and meant it, he didn't let himself lean in for the kiss. Not the first, not the second, not the third, not --

"Has anyone ever told you you're a terrible person?" Oh, yeah. That was how it officially started.

"What?"

Jensen had bent his elbow inward, shifted away, but Jared caught him. One arm surged around Jensen's back.

"Chad asked me that one time," Jared had said, "He was talking about this joke I told, though. About a cripple."

"English, J. I like simple sentences," Jensen said, moving to sidestep him. Jared had pressed the heart of his hand into Jensen's spine, insistent and there was no way out. The wall was behind him, Jared in front, and Jensen couldn't see the door at all.

For once in his life, Jared stopped grinning. He said, "I'm saying, don't do me any favors, man," so, whatever, screw it. Jensen wouldn't. It wasn't like they hadn't danced around the issue for almost a week by then, pretending Jensen didn't rub his hands together, slide one into Jared's pants and pull until Jared gritted his teeth and choked on Jensen's name. Fine. He'd set his jaw and waited for Jared to come to him.

;;

The reality is that this is happening. It's fucked up, and they might as well admit it. They might as well enjoy it.

"I need you to -- " Jensen explains and stubs his toe on the nightstand as he turns them around. He stamps his foot and grunts through the pain, Jared chuckling. He tongues Jensen's neck, kisses his chin, finds his mouth and fits perfectly where the walls meet. Jensen buries his hands in the back of Jared's jeans, the round bones in his wrist scraping across the edge of Jared's belt. Jared curls down, easy like he isn't six-foot-infinity, digging grooves where they don't belong, including every part of Jensen's life not typed out in three-page scenes and twelve-point font.

"I bet I could fuck you standing up," he promises, and Jensen bucks hard, holds a breath bright behind his ribs.

Jared sags down the plaster slowly, dragging Jensen with him until he's sitting with his thighs parted. Jensen kneels in front of him, over him, angling Jared's face up with one hand. Lately, Jensen can't look at the guy without imagining his dick in Jared's mouth.

So, Jared licks his palm before he wraps it hot and tight around Jensen's cock, and Jensen doesn't feel guilty. He isn't proud, but he doesn't regret the dull friction, or the way Jared mouths his t-shirt while he jerks Jensen off. He never planned for the way cotton dampens under Jared's lips, between his teeth, warm and wet, muttering, "God, you're so--" when Jensen starts to push forward, but he won't apologize for it now, because he's gonna keep letting it happen.

;;

It works because they let it. Jensen isn't going to walk into a room and leave right away because Jared's on the phone. Jared isn't going to pretend he's talking with anybody but exactly who it is, and in between those times, Jensen's too busy memorizing the way Jared tastes.

"--all day, but how bad is it?" Jared asks, mid-conversation when Jensen finds him sitting on a couch from tomorrow's interior set. "Ah, babe, you say that like you don't know 101 traffic always sucks."

Elbows braced on his knees, Jared lifts his head and tilts it right to signal Jensen over. He touches Jensen's hip. He pulls on the bottom of his jacket until Jensen sits down next to him, shoulder to shoulder with Jared's hand across his thigh.

"Baby," Jared says. He presses a button on the phone's side, and Jensen catches the end of Sandy's sentence. "Baby, Jensen just came in. Say hey; you're on speaker."

Clear over the line, Sandy says, "Hi, Jensen. I'm sorry, I'm stuck in traffic out here."

"Road rage," Jared amends, fingers kneading absently. "She's got a potty mouth."

And Jensen swears he has the same problem -- don't worry. Nowhere near as filthy as Jared, though, he says, and presses back on the cushions, because Jared inches his hand closer and closer to Jensen's crotch. Jensen's hard, Jared thrives on it, and eventually Sandy has to go, thank God. Jared drags his finger along the inseam and rolls onto his side for a better angle. He massages Jensen through jeans that don't belong to him, slow and careful.

"She's a little stressed out," Jared mentions.

Jensen breathes, "That's too bad," and tries to remember where the nearest bathroom is from here. He wonders if they could make it without being seen. Jared taps at the button on Jensen's pants.

"C'mere," Jared says, and Jensen opens his mouth as he does. At this point, he has two choices: he can walk away or he can start reciprocating, and every time, Jensen thinks, well, they've already gone through all the trouble to get here.

;;

The couple times Sandy has visited from California, Jared makes sure to wake up early the mornings she's set to arrive. He moves around the room, collecting shirts and jeans, exhibits a and b, everything but used condoms in the trashcan. Jared mutters under his breath sometimes as he does, a verbal checklist. Jensen is always awake, but he faces the opposite wall until just before Jared walks out.

"Call's at one," Jensen says or something else that doesn't matter, and Jared checks his phone -- checks the time, checks nothing.

"All right, cool," he responds, hefting his pile of clothes up in his arms.

Jensen says, "Great," and then, "You going for a run?" because that's Jared's thing. Sandy flies into town, Jared runs, and sweats the weeks out. He showers in his own room and kisses her with both paws stretched over the sides of her face in the airport terminal.

Jared nods. Jensen pulls the covers up. He says, "I'll go by your room in a little bit then. Leave the keycard on the nightstand or what?"

"Yeah, or by the TV -- whichever. Later?"

Jensen lifts a hand, gives a thumbs up as he yawns. "One o'clock, J," stretching the words, and Jared at least takes care to close the door softly.

;;

And Jensen thinks maybe it will stop on its own. Maybe they'll work together everyday, Jared speaking in Sam's voice when the cameras roll and bringing coffee exactly the way Jensen likes it between takes. And maybe that will stop being some unofficial prelude to a blowjob in Jensen's trailer.

Some afternoons Jensen can sit on the linoleum in the kitchenette with Jared, trying to teach him how to do something constructive with his giant monkey hands. A chord, D chord and G, but Jared gets frustrated and antsy after half an hour, instead waving a house slipper in front of the dogs while Jensen sings. He can pluck at the acoustic, humming one Garth Brooks tune or another, and when the dogs start to howl along, Jared will lie on the floor and join them. Jensen won't think about sex until Jared crawls up his legs, mouthing Jensen into a kiss, still humming, fingers slipping over nylon strings.

It's like those days he's almost making progress. This is just sex, sleazy and mind-blowing. It feels good, but it won't last. Eventually they'll shoot during the day, drink at night, and pass out in separate rooms. Making out, quick and haphazard in the elevator up to the fifth floor, the inside of the Jared's mouth -- it will all be one heady memory. Old material for future nostalgia, but right now Jared's salt and chocolate chocolate chip cookies, strong and overwhelming, loud and persistent. He's a clean grin and firm grip, a hard grind and nasty promises, coaxing Jensen there there there, then always bringing it home.

;;

"I'm thinking about taking Sandy to Napa," and of course Jared waits until Jensen has two fingers in him to discuss travel plans. "You talk about it all the time."

"I like it up there," Jensen says. He curls his fingers. "My folks have a time-share."

Jared's mouth opens, thoughts stuttering and frozen. He rolls hips, pushing down. He whispers, "Jensen, ah--"

"Every time," Jensen says, leaning down to rest his forehead against Jared's chest, smiling. He bites softly and sits up again. His fingers slide and twist, and Jared keens, hissing in a way that makes Jensen think of Sam for a second. Jensen laughs. "I think Sandy would like it. You should take her."

Jared snaps his head to the side, beats a fist into the pillow next to him. "I will," he says and reaches down, scrabbling fingers along Jensen's bicep. "Dude, fuck me or blow me, but come _on_."

;;

One of the rare weekends they get off, Jared flies south while Jensen stays in his suite with his new girl. She likes the lay of the land here. She comes up now and then, whenever Jensen knows he'll have time to spend in pajamas. She's beautiful and sweet, and Jensen doesn't mind paying for the flights back and forth, but he won't give her a key to his place in Burbank. She uses cucumber melon shampoo and smears the smell all over his pillows, sleeps in his t-shirts, and reads the Sunday comics out loud while he prepares the sandwiches for lunch.

He never makes breakfast. The one time he did, he made the mistake of adding banana-flavored Nestle's Quik mix to the pancake batter, out of habit, and didn't realize it until she stuck a forkful in her mouth. She liked it, and it freaked Jensen out.

He told Jared about it, pushing up Jared's hoodie as he tried to turn on the shower. Jared thought it was funny. He still brings it up to this day, usually when Jensen's cooking. He looks over Jensen's shoulder while he melts butter on skillet or cracks eggs into a bowl. "I can't believe you made her my pancakes," he likes to deadpan, and rubs the spot between Jensen's shoulder blades or down his spine.

"--what you thinking about?" she asks. Jensen shakes his head, pushes her plate across the counter to her.

"Nothing," he says, shrugs. Nothing at all.

;;

Jared looks good against Jensen's dresser in Vancouver, but he looks even better against his mattress just outside of Los Angeles. His hair sticks to his face in the mornings, pillow creases criss-crossing over his cheek. He moans and stretches as he wakes up, and the first thing he says, hoarse and throaty is, "I know, I know. You're wondering how I can be so hot even when I'm snoring. I don't know. I can't help it."

Jensen grabs balled pairs of socks from the drawer he has open and flings them at Jared's head. "Get up, smartass," he orders, "Call your girlfriend."

"Look, don't feel threatened." Jared slides from under the sheets. "For what it's worth, I think you've got a great ass."

He stands, yawning and naked as the day he was born. He twists around, searching for his phone. When he catches Jensen staring, he tosses his head back and laughs, throat exposed. Jensen never marks Jared, but he sees them in his mind, all the scratches over sweat-slick skin and tiny bites to his neck, shoulder, hips, and high on his thighs. By now, Jensen sees himself all over Jared, but he keeps lying him down for more.

Jared finds his phone on the carpet, sits on the edge of the bed and dials. He scratches his stomach and just smirks lazycalm at Jensen with the phone to his ear while he waits.

Before last year, Jensen had certain routines. He had an order about himself, his life. He worked, he dated nice women with big tits, got wasted with Chris and Steve when he could, and visited his family on the holidays. This year, Jensen still does all the same shit, but now, at restaurants he asks for wing sauce to pour over everything. He stores an extra toothbrush in his medicine cabinet. Any time a girl gets into his car lately, they ask Jensen why the seat is three miles back from the dash, and more and more, the reason is the same.

Finally, Jared says, "Hello?" and then, "Did I wake you?" and gets up to head into the bathroom. Jensen puts on a shirt and picks their clothes up from the night before. He throws Jared's stuff over a chair.

;;

Shooting is behind schedule, so they're cramming an entire day into six and a half hours. Around sunset, the crew takes a minute to accommodate for the night shots. The first A.D. hands them some sodas, and Jared and Jensen stand outside, leaning against the house.

"We should do delivery tonight," Jared says. He picks up his foot to brush off leaves stuck to the sole. "I kinda want Chinese."

Jensen bends forward, hunched over. "Do you know any place?"

Jared knocks an arm on Jensen's shoulder. "Nah. Stand up," he says, and has Jensen hold his drink so Jared can work with both hands. Jensen isn't wearing a jacket. Jared digs his thumbs into the muscles, massages hard for a minute, then turns Jensen around and pushes him into the wood.

"Maybe we'll just aim for a big breakfast, instead," Jensen offers, thrusting his hips forward, closing the space. Jared breathes against the corner of his mouth, then slides left and there's nothing delicate about this kiss. Their teeth click, and Jared ducks his head to the side.

Jared gasps. "Big breakfast, yeah," he concludes, and someone calls for marks.

;;

The one time they almost have the conversation, Jared just says, "Do you think we should --?"

"No," Jensen says. "I want -- " and Jared touches him then, so Jensen thinks he understands.

;;

More often than not, this is what it's like now: if Jensen tells Jared it's starting to rain, Jared will hold out a hand and stick out his tongue. He'll rib Jensen and smack him on the shoulders all day long, loud and laughing, but at night, he's boneless and incoherent when Jensen sucks his dick and pulls back to slip a thumb over the head. Jared's eaten his pancakes the same way since he was twelve, and most nights he calls his girlfriend before he goes to sleep. His favorite way to wake Jensen up is by sliding a flat palm along the side of his cock with one hand -- just enough to get his attention -- so Jensen can appreciate the cup of coffee in the other, but that's rare since Jared would sleep for days straight if he had any choice.

Jared always has a bag of gummi bears on his dresser, he's hot even if he half-strangles Jensen with an arm across his neck some nights, and on days like today when the alarm clock goes off too early --

"Mm," Jared mumbles. "Leave it."

A second after Jensen says, "No, I should go before -- " Jared raises and stretches across him to hit the alarm and knock it off the dresser. He flops down again, finds a new groove in the pillows.

"Don't move," he says. "Sleep."

;;

What it comes down to nearly one year later is Jared muttering, "I wanna fuck you like an animal," sing-song and quiet on an overnight flight from LAX to Seattle. "That was a good party. Good weekend."

He's drunk and loose -- they both are, and Jensen's been twenty-eight for more than a couple days. Twelve months, and what Jensen has to show for it is a television show and a guy that doesn't belong to him. He can pick it apart, or he can go with it, and the latter's done him all right so far. They have seats at the back of the plane, several empty rows between them and any other passengers. Jared lifts the edge of Jensen's shirt to get at skin, and Jensen breathes through his nose and lets him.

"Whoa, you falling asleep on me?" Jared asks. Jensen turns his head, and Jared's watching him with low, liquor-heavy eyes of his own. He has tanned some after only a couple days -- Jensen can see the faint change in color at the base of his neck. "What?"

Rule number three --

Fuck it. It's not like they did the other two right.

Jensen lifts his hand and swipes his fingers down Jared's face. Jared jerks his head back, coughing.

"You poked me in my eye, you bastard," Jared complains and half-grins.

"The mile-high club. Do people still do that?" Jensen offers, conversationally. Jared raises his shoulders and fails to look thoughtful. He creeps his hand higher underneath Jensen's shirt, and as soon as the seatbelt light blinks out, Jensen does the honors for both of them.


End file.
